Dating Is Scary. Please Shower Anyway.

A few weeks ago, I paid money to attend an over-40 singles mixer.

That’s a sentence I never thought I’d voluntarily write. Yet here we are.

I’ve been single for a long time. Longer than I care to admit here. Somewhere along the way, I got comfortable telling myself a story: I’m painfully shy. I’m socially awkward. Meeting people just isn’t something I’m good at.

There’s some truth in that. I can be shy. I do feel awkward.

But tell yourself that story long enough and you start choosing to believe it.

Eventually, you stop asking whether you might enjoy something. You’ve already decided you’re the kind of person who doesn’t do it.

Lately, I’ve made a promise to myself to be more intentional with my life.

Dressing better.

Eating healthier.

Exercising more.

And being intentional about my social life.

Which is how, on a Tuesday night in August, I found myself putting on nice clothes, ordering a cocktail that cost entirely too much money, and walking into a loud, crowded room full of strangers.

I was nervous.

I went anyway.

And you know what?

I met some cool people. I had some good conversations. I enjoyed myself enough that I want to do something like it again.

But the part that mattered most wasn’t whether I got a phone number or made some magical romantic connection.

It was that I kept the promise.

I walked into a room I’d spent years convincing myself I didn’t belong in, and I participated.

The man I am today belonged in that room.

This challenging experience has also led me to think about an internet phenomenon called “pheromone maxxing.”

God help me, that’s a phrase I chose to use in an article that people will read.

The version I encountered suggested that men might become more attractive to women by skipping showers or deodorant and allowing their natural scent to do the heavy lifting.

Apparently, basic hygiene is now a debated dating strategy.

I don’t know how many men actually take this seriously. The internet has an incredible ability to find six guys with absurd opinions and turn them into a cultural movement.

But underneath the ridiculousness, I recognize the appeal.

Change one thing.

Gain an advantage.

Make dating easier.

If somebody could offer me a reliable way to make dating less uncomfortable, I’m all ears.

Seriously. I’d pay good money for that.

I’m getting closer to 50. I’ve been out of practice for a long time. Putting myself out there hasn’t magically gotten easier because I’ve gotten older.

In many ways, it feels harder.

There’s the awkwardness itself, and then there’s the embarrassment of thinking I should have outgrown the awkwardness by now.

At what age, exactly, does a man receive his shipment of effortless confidence?

Because mine appears to have been lost in transit I lost the tracking number.

I know I have something to offer a relationship.

I also know believing that in the privacy of my own home is a hell of a lot easier than walking into a room and giving another human being the opportunity to decide for herself.

At home, I control the story.

I can imagine how things might go. I can imagine myself saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment. I can be funny and charming and confident without ever stumbling over a word.

In an actual conversation, another person gets a say.

She might be interested.

She might not.

We might enjoy talking and never speak again.

I might stumble over my words. There might be an awkward silence. She might have a perfectly good reason for leaving early that has absolutely nothing to do with me.

Or maybe she just isn’t interested.

That can happen, too.

There’s a lot I can’t control, and plenty of room for an anxious mind to fill in the blanks.

That uncertainty helps me understand why secret formulas can be so appealing.

Follow these steps.

Change this habit.

Say these words.

Wear this.

Don’t wear that.

Become so attractive, confident, masculine, successful or apparently fragrant that rejection becomes impossible.

Oh, if wishing made it so.

What I needed at that mixer wasn’t a secret advantage.

I needed the willingness to start a conversation without knowing how it would go.

I needed to be curious about somebody else.

I needed to listen.

And I needed to tolerate a little awkwardness without immediately treating it as proof that I should have stayed home.

I also needed to give the evening a fair chance.

If finding a relationship were the only acceptable outcome, I could dismiss every good conversation as a failure to accomplish something bigger.

That would be a miserable way to spend a Tuesday.

A pleasant conversation deserves to count as a pleasant conversation.

Enjoying someone’s company has value even when it doesn’t lead to a date.

And following through on a promise to myself matters, especially when fear has talked me out of similar opportunities before.

When I read advice promising men some secret advantage in dating, I wonder how much of its appeal comes from something deeper.

The fear of being seen as we actually are.

I recognize that fear.

I live in that fear.

I know how hard it can be to admit you’re lonely. To acknowledge that you want a relationship and don’t really know how to create one. Even saying, “I’m out of practice,” can feel like revealing something you were supposed to have figured out years ago.

It’s a strange position to put ourselves in: wanting someone to know us while feeling ashamed of the parts of our lives where we could use a little understanding.

I don’t need to share my entire emotional history with a woman I’ve just met.

She came to a singles mixer, not to conduct my intake appointment.

But I do want to become more comfortable being honest and being real.

I want to be able to acknowledge a nervous moment without believing I’ve disqualified myself from being attractive.

And I want to extend that same generosity to the person across from me.

She has her own reasons for being there. Her own history. Her own hopes. Her own fears. Probably some awkwardness of her own to manage.

Remembering that gives me something useful to do with my attention.

Instead of constantly wondering how I’m being perceived, I can actually get to know another human being.

That also makes me think about what I’m preparing for.

By all means, dress well. Exercise. Eat healthier. Drink more water. Take care of yourself.

I want to keep doing those things, too.

But I also want to practice listening when I’m not going to get credit for saying something impressive.

I want to keep my word.

I want to be able to apologize without spending the next five minutes explaining why the other person shouldn’t have been hurt.

I want to learn how to express disappointment without making somebody else responsible for fixing it.

That last one matters in dating.

Rejection can hurt even when everyone behaves kindly. I can acknowledge that hurt without making a woman responsible for taking it away.

She doesn’t owe me another chance because I worked up the courage to ask.

My courage matters. Her choice does, too.

None of this comes with a guarantee.

Being thoughtful, emotionally honest, and dependable doesn’t entitle anybody to a relationship.

I’m still interested in becoming those things.

They would make me a better partner someday.

More importantly, they improve the life I’m already living.

That includes my friendships.

I want friendships where I can occasionally say something more honest than, “I’m good.”

I want to be able to tell another man that dating feels intimidating without immediately turning the whole conversation into a joke at my expense.

Having people I can be honest with also means a future partner won’t have to become the first and only person who hears what’s going on with me.

Maybe that’s another thing I’m learning as I get older.

Getting older doesn’t automatically make you confident, emotionally available or good at relationships.

I’m still learning all three.

Sometimes learning looks profound.

Sometimes it means you’re almost 50 and buying a ticket to a singles mixer on a Tuesday in August with overpriced cocktails.

I’m glad I bought mine.

More than that, I’m glad I went.

And I’m glad I stayed.

For one evening, I gave myself a chance to discover that the old story about me wasn’t the whole story.

I could be nervous and still have a good conversation.

I could feel awkward without deciding the awkwardness meant I didn’t belong.

I could walk into a room without knowing what anybody there would think of me and give them the opportunity to know me anyway.

I don’t expect one evening to undo years of hesitation.

But I do expect to remember it the next time I’m tempted to decide, before I’ve even tried, that something isn’t for me.

If you’re struggling with some version of this, I hope you’ll give yourself that chance.

Tell a friend you’d like to get out more.

Accept an invitation.

Ask for help.

Go somewhere new.

Do something that gives another person an opportunity to know you.

You’re allowed to want companionship.

You’re allowed to be scared of looking for it.

And you’re allowed to need some practice.

I’m still learning how to make room for all three.

But please—and I cannot believe I feel compelled to say this—take a freakin’ shower.

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